Love For the Damaged
by lunarlanding
Summary: Lucas and Haley and Nathan, after four years of silence. Post The Hero Dies in This One. LH, NH.
1. ghosts all around you

**Love (For the Damaged) **

Summary: Lucas and Haley (and Nathan), after four years of silence.

Spoilers: Post-"The Hero Dies In This One". Nothing else exists.

Pairing: L/H, N/H

Note: I started this last year, and it's been lying on my hard drive since then. So I don't know when it'll get finished, but it will. Eventually.

* * *

**(ghosts all around you)**

It's Monday morning and he checks the mail before leaving for work, a gig in an office in the middle of Boston, thirty feet above the ground. He's been assigned an interview with the newest draft for the Boston Red Sox, just another stuck up son-of-a-bitch with genetics and luck.

(Luck -- something he's never had, he thinks, not with his bad shoulder and his heart problem.

Unlike Nathan, who got everything. Who always got everything. The father, the status, the trophy wife, the basketball career, the seven figure contract.)

He pauses, shakes his head, attempting to clear his head. He fumbles for his mail key, slips the metal into the lock, twists.

Inside, he finds a postcard.

_Niagara Falls_, it says on the front, the typography a shade of pink fit for spandex and leg warmers. The glossy picture on the front shows a happy family, posing in front of a tacky tourist storefront. Lucas flips it over, brow crinkling in confusion at the postmark (April 3rd 2015, Monroe, Wisconsin).

He reads the message:

_The Met. Birds in Space. March 4th. 17:00. _

_Please. _

Emphasized by two underlines, a heart dotting the i.

No name, no return address.

But it doesn't matter. He knows the loopy handwriting, has known it for years, will always know it.

His heart suddenly spasms − angrily, painfully, longingly.

_Haley. _

He shuts the mailbox door, strolls onto the streets of Boston and finds the nearest payphone.

Calling the first travel agent in the book, he says: "I need a flight that arrives in New York Thursday afternoon."

(And that is how it begins)

* * *

He spends forty-five minutes looking for _Birds in Space, _asks two security guards, a gift shop cashier, and a lady with a furry pink coat before finding the stark white statue.

And her.

She is looking at a painting across the room, tilting her head in focus. She is wearing dark glasses and a heavy back winter coat. Her hair is longer and redder, the expression on her face sad and tired. But it's her. It's Haley.

His palms suddenly feel clammy with sweat, and the room feels warmer, claustrophobic. He doesn't know what to think, what to say, what to feel.

Because it's Haley.

(Haley, the little girl who cried when he fell off his bike and broke his arm. Haley, his only childhood friend. Haley, the only person who ever understood who he was; really, truly. Haley, who left Tree Hill without looking back. Haley, the girl who destroyed Nathan, who transformed his brother into a cynical, bitter shadow of his former self. Haley, who left him.)

She turns around, her face changing in recognition.

"Hi," he says, slowly, carefully, trying to keep his voice low, his voice steady.

She straightens up at his voice, slides off her glasses. She says his name in wonder. "Lucas." Shaking her head in shock, she whispers, "You came. I wasn't sure, after Nathan, after…" She composes herself. "You just, came," she repeats to herself.

He looks at his feet, doesn't know what to say. He examines the wine stain on his khakis, his eyes focusing on the painting above her shoulder.

He stays silent for a few moments, but says, finally:

"It was you."

* * *

She brings him to a bar at the edge of Manhattan, thick with smoke. She keeps her head down, hair obscuring her face, almost trips twice. It's too dark to wear sunglasses, she tells him, but paparazzi these days.

The price of fame, he thinks.

She finds a booth at the corner, away from drunken co-eds and leering business men. She slides in. He follows, awkwardly; limbs too long to be graceful.

"So," he starts, slowly. The word feels thick in his mouth, but he forces it out anyway. "Why?"

"Why what?" she asks, avoiding his eyes.

"You know what," he states. Feels the slow, dull anger well up in his stomach.

She looks at him, eyes wide. "I—" Stops herself, looks down at the table, traces the scratches on the black formica.

"What Haley?" he asks, a hard edge slipping into his voice. "It's been four years, Haley. I haven't seen you in four years. And then I get a postcard, and I come. I come. I deserve an explanation. I need to know why you left. Why you left Nathan. Why you left me."

She avoids his gaze, looks down at her reflection. "Lucas…" she whispers. "I…"

He is angry now; a volcano. Five years of questions and pent-up fury. His head suddenly feels hot, his breathing shallow. "God Haley! Don't have anything to say? I haven't heard from you in five years. Five years Haley." He stops, waits for her to say something, anything. But she's clenching her jaw, and she remains silent. "No? How 'bout I'm sorry Lucas? I'm sorry that after I broke – no, shattered – Nathan's heart I ran away, like a coward. I didn't call and I didn't write. I'm sorry I left you, my best friend, and ruined your life."

Her eyes glittering now, fingers shredding a wrinkled napkin lying on the table. And he knows. He knows he's hurting her, plunging a knife into her heart, twisting hard. And he wants to stop, doesn't want to hurt her, because even after everything, she's Haley. She's his Haley.

"God, Haley. God." His voice breaks. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes.

She's crying now; tears slipping down her cheeks, hair sticking to her face. "Lucas," she gasps out, "I'm sorry."

At her words, he looks up at her bitterly. "You're sorry?"

"Yes," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I handled things badly with Nathan. I'm sorry I let our friendship die. And I know it's not enough. I know it's not enough. But-" She looks up at him, wrings her hand. "I love you Lucas. And I miss you. I miss you so much. Please." Her voice scratchy and desperate, "Please."

He looks at her. Sees her hollow, pleading eyes, and his heart hurts.

Because things are not okay. Would never be okay. Not really, he thinks.

But:

He misses her.

And suddenly, that's all that really matters.

* * *

It's past midnight and his flight leaves in two hours. They're sitting over coffee in a restaurant in JFK and it's almost the same. Comfortable. As it was back then, when it was them, just them (before Nathan, before Dan and Deb, before everything fell apart).

She's tucking her hair behind her hair when he catches a glimpse of her palm. "What happened here?" He touches her hand, traces the scar he can't recall inscribed on her skin, spanning from the base of her thumb to her wrist.

(He read in a book once, the story of one's life is etched on one's body. A roadmap of a lifetime of mistakes and triumphs. He thinks, maybe, just maybe, the answers are buried in her flesh)

An uncomfortable look flashes across her face, "I broke something, cut myself on glass." Swallows, "I was drunk."

He stares intently at her, sees a look of pain behind her eyes, knows there is more to the story. "Why?"

"Why was I drunk?" She laughs, sharply, bitterly. "I was lonely and depressed." She pulls her hand away from his grasp, pauses before continuing, "And my ex-husband was getting married."

"Oh," he says, too stunned to formulate anything else.

She misinterprets the shock on his face, says quietly, "Just because I left him first never meant I never loved him."

He shakes his head, "That's not what I meant. I just- I didn't know you knew, about Nathan."

She answers his underlying question, "It was all over TV." She hesitates a moment before continuing, "And Peyton told me." She answers his question before he voices it, "We write, sometimes. She was the only one who didn't hate me."

He's too tired to feel angry at Peyton for keeping Haley a secret, too tired to deny Haley's observation (because maybe, he doesn't want to; he knows its true, knows that he did hate her. Maybe a little part of him still does). Wearily he asks, "Why didn't she tell me?"

She looks down at her fingers, stirs her coffee and answers, avoiding his eyes. "I asked her not to. I was too afraid, I didn't want to deal." Haley shakes her head, "It doesn't matter."

"It does," he whispers, strained.

Her body tenses, doesn't know how to respond. So changes the subject entirely. "Is he happy?"

"Yes," he answers; slowly, cautiously.

Her heart stings, suddenly. Tears prick her eyes. "I'm glad," she manages.

Her words ring false.

At that moment, the PA comes to life, the voice crackling with static, repeats his flight and gate number twice. He puts on his coat, slings on his backpack. Stands up, about to say goodbye, to leave without answers; she stops him. Puts a hand on his arm, asks hesitantly, "Does he still hate me?"

Crushes his cup with his right hand, pauses, and answers, "Yes."

(This is the truth. Knows that even though Nathan still loves Haley fiercely, angrily, he hates her more.)

She nods quickly, looks down at the table, rubs her temples. "I see."

"It doesn't matter what Nathan thinks about you," he offers. "It doesn't matter to me."

"He's your brother," she comments bitterly, "He wouldn't want you consorting with the enemy."

"He doesn't have to know," he says, looking her in the eye before tossing the crumpled Styrofoam cup into the trash and walking away.


	2. the mistakes we knew we were making

**(the mistakes we knew we were making)**

He spends two days after his plane touches down in Boston looking for Peyton Sawyer. Combs through the phone book, searches for _Sawyer, Peyton _on classmates dot com. Enters the address to Peyton's high school web cam (dead, unsurprisingly). Finally ends up calling his mother, still in Tree Hill, still running a hip nightclub. She gives him Larry Sawyer's number, Chicago area code. He wonders why she knows it, but doesn't dwell on the fact.

"What's wrong?" She asks, after giving him the phone number. "Why do you need to contact Peyton? You haven't talked to her since high school."

"Nothing's wrong, Mom," he tells her. "I just wanted to see how she's doing. Nothing's wrong."

Except a lot of things are.

But they have nothing to do with Peyton, and everything to do with himself.

He, of course, doesn't say this aloud.

He finds out from Mr. Sawyer that Peyton is traveling Paris and is spending her days hitch hiking rides from strangers with a sketchbook in hand and a charcoal pencil, making the landscapes immortal. She doesn't have a phone number, her father tells him, but she checks her email from time to time.

So he logs into his email account, starts a new message.

Writes:

Haley sent me a postcard, with a date, and a time and a place. And I went to her. Hopped on a plane – went to her. But I left too soon, and she didn't give me an address, a phone number. And now, I miss her, and I need her.

She told me about you, her only link to Tree Hill. To Nathan. To me. I need to know who she's become. Who she is. I want things to be the same, because then, maybe I'll be happy. And things can't be the same if I don't have the answers. If I don't know who she is.

(Don't you remember? I used to know everything about her. How she liked her chicken soup when she had a cold. How she would only eat her eggs sunny side up. I used to know everything about her. And I was happy. But now, all I know about her is that she got drunk on Nathan's wedding night and that she loved him. That she's sorry. That she wears dark glasses to avoid the paparazzi. And that she misses me. That's all I know. And that's not enough. That's not enough. And I'm unhappy. So unhappy.)

Please, I need a phone number. And address. Anything. Please, Peyton. Please.

-- L.

Moves the cursor to the bottom of the page.

Clicks, send.

* * *

Seven hours later, he finds an email in his inbox. Clicks it open, reads:

Peyton called me, told me you emailed her, asking about me. She said that you wanted to know about me, because you said you didn't know me. She thought it was best that I know, that I tell you myself. Tell you my life story. But you know it, don't you? Because you were there. You were always there. And even during the past five years, I thought about you most. Because you were there, always there. And I didn't know what to do without my best friend, didn't know what to do without the person who knows me best. You told me at the airport that it didn't matter, that Nathan still hated me, that you'd be my friend anyway. That it'd be our secret. Tell me Lucas, is it worth the risk? Losing that bond with Nathan. I know how close you both are. I see it on TV, read about the Scott brothers in magazines. I don't know if I can let you sacrifice it. I'm broken and damaged, and I'm not worth it.

So that's the real question, isn't it? Tell me Lucas, do you mean what you say? After everything, do you still want to be my friend? Do you want to take that chance and risk it all?

He clicks reply, doesn't think about the consequences, types in a single word:

_Yes. _

* * *

Nathan and his wife (Jennifer, with her pale blond hair, alabaster skin and small pink mouth. A stark opposite of Haley, but that was the point, his brother told him, when things started to get serious) come over for dinner four days after he gets home. Tradition whenever Nathan is in town between games.

Jennifer brings over a casserole like she always does (ham and cheese this time), and flowers. Jennifer is always trying to make his place homey, constantly bringing plants, picture frames, and paid visits from Maria, her college cleaning lady. No woman is going to marry you if you're so adamant about living like a bachelor, she'd say, tossing her hair in dismay.

When she says this, Nathan always laughs and kisses her. "That's my wife for you," he tells Lucas affectionately. "Always playing house, even when it's not her own home."

Lucas knows that Nathan likes this. Likes that even after two years of marriage, his wife still goes through motions of domesticity: bakes him casseroles and cookies, cleans the house, plans benefits at the country club. Likes that Jennifer loves him more than anything. Likes that he has a trophy wife.

(Unlike Haley who got tired of washing the dishes and cooking him dinner after only half a year of marriage. Who wasn't devoted to her husband. Who abandoned him.

That, of course, is unspoken. Haley's name is, after all, not to be mentioned. Period.)

His sister-in-law is placing the casserole dish on the set table when Nathan asks him, "You went to New York City man? And you didn't tell me?"

He freezes his heart pounding. Sees Nathan holding up a boarding pass, a confused look on his brother's face. Knows what Nathan would do if he found out. Found out about Haley.

Lucas pauses, gathers his thoughts, tries to remain nonchalant when he responds. "Last minute thing. Had an interview with…" Hesitates, goes through the filofax of Yankees in his head, "Brian Gilmore."

Nathan studies his face, a little suspicious, "But it's not baseball season."

"Pre-season interview," he lies, "You know how those go, Nathan Scott, NBA all-star."

Feels guilty when Nathan's face relaxes, "Oh, okay. Next time you should tell me. You could've bought me a pretzel. Or a dozen. Man, those New York pretzels are so good."

(Years later, he will look back and think that maybe this – this moment – was the beginning of the end)


	3. and this is the story of cain and abel

**(and this is the story of cain and abel)**

He goes to every one of Nathan's home games. Considers it an act of brotherly duty.

He forks over a few bills every other week. Sometimes, he sits with Jennifer, or Dan and Deb. When he does, he makes sure he goes through the motions: Cheers when his brother makes a basket, yells when the ref makes a bad call, claps until his palms sting. But most of the time, he sits alone, lost amongst a sea of green and clumsily constructed signs declaring love for this season's media darling. He prefers it this way; prefers that he can just sit, and watch his brother play without having to put on a performance.

Today, he's sitting beside a girl (fifteen, maybe) with tight blond curls and a bubble-gum pink mouth. She started talking to him the second he sat down, a wide excited smile on her face. "This is my first game," she tells him clapping giddily. "I love basketball! So my boyfriend brought me tickets for our five month anniversary." She gestures to the boy sitting beside her, slurping a soft drink.

He nods, plasters a fake smile on his face. "That was nice of him," he comments unenthusiastically, not in the mood for small talk with strangers.

She fails to notice his disinterested response and nods, "He rocks." She turns to her boyfriend who kisses her cheek, entwines his fingers with hers.

I'm Katie Anderson by the way," she says, smiling brightly. "And this is John."

"Lucas," he says in return, focuses his eyes on shiny floor of the court, where the team is filing out.

Beside him, Katie squeals, "Oh my god! John! There's Nathan Scott!" She turns to him, and gestures at her bright green jersey, with his own last name plastered across the back. "He's my favourite basketball player, ever!"

He smiles halfheartedly at her comment, and as the game starts, it echoes in his head. He watches as Nathan dribbles the ball, slickly eluding the opposition, before shooting it; gracefully extending his body. "Nothing but net," Lucas murmurs, as the ball drops effortlessly into the hoop.

And as the people around him leap to their feet, all he feels is pain in his chest.

Because suddenly, a part of him wishes that things were the other way around. Wishes that genetics were on his side, and that he wasn't the Scott to get stuck with the faulty heart and the mediocre life.

* * *

For two months after Keith died (car accident, a bunch of teenagers high as a kite driving at 100 miles per hour), he couldn't sleep. On those rare occasions he could, he'd always dream of the accident, would wake up with the image of Keith's bloody face impressed in his mind. He was at Boston University at the time, and he'd toss and turn and end up studying or order in pizza or filling out crosswords. Or he'd wake up in a cold sweat, and his heart beating wildly. His roommate was a light sleeper, and after six weeks of dealing with his insomnia, Ben went to the RA and requested a transfer. Before Ben moved out, he handed him his mother's business card and said, "My mom's a therapist. You should go see her."

And after two months of gazing at the card, fingering the edges thoughtfully, he did.

Does, still.

Every few months, drives his cherry red Jetta to Dr. Fordham's office and sits down for a session.

The first thing he notices when he steps into the office, he notices that Dr. Fordham remodeled: the walls now a serene blue, watercolour landscapes settled in golden frames hanging on the walls.

"Have a seat Lucas," Dr. Fordham says calmly, pointing to the leather couch in the right corner of the room.

"You remodeled," he states, obeying her order.

She takes a seat across from him, crosses her ankles, "Ah yes, yes I did." She gives him a warm smile, takes out her chart, her eyes scanning. "So how's work going?" she asks him, slipping on her glasses.

He shrugs, "Work is fine."

"I've read a few of your articles in the _Boston Globe_" she stops scribbling on her clipboard, "They're good."

He nods, acknowledges the compliment, "Thanks."

"So how does it feel to be covering Nathan?" The question is lobbed smoothly, splicing the air, hits a target.

"Its fine," he answers shortly. He can feel his heart quickening, blood roaring in his ears.

Dr. Fordham looks at him intently, and he can almost see the wheels in her head turning, cranking. "So you don't have any problems with watching your brother live out your dream?"

Doesn't answer the question, says instead, "I'm proud of Nate. Really proud of him."

"I'm sure you are," she says soothingly, "But pride and jealously aren't mutually exclusive emotions."

At her words, he swallows hard. Says tightly, "I'm not jealous." Knows somewhere in his heart that he's lying.

"Were you ever?" she inquires.

He frowns at her, "I've yet to hear about a brother who has never jealous of his own brother."

"Tell me about those instances," she says.

"What instances?" he asks, starting to grow somewhat irritable.

"Instances when you were jealous of Nathan."

He presses his fingers into his temples in an attempt to relieve the sudden tension. "I don't know. They were stupid things, mostly."

"Like?" She leans forward a little.

Shrugs, "I was seven, I think. And one day, Nate rode this beautiful shiny red bike to school, and I remember I wanted it so badly. My own bike was yellow, rusted, and the reflectors were chipped." He pauses, lost in thought for a second, "That was the way things were though. Nate was the claimed son. One Tree Hill's golden boy, with the pretty girlfriend and the status on the basketball court. Even then."

"Did you resent that?"

"Yeah, I guess did then. Not so much anymore. But then, I was in love with Peyton, I was dirt poor." he says. "I thought Nathan had everything I wanted."

"Does he?"

"Does he what?"

She clarifies, "Does he have everything you want. Now."

He freezes. Says slowly, lies through his teeth, "Well, he has the basketball career. I wanted that, but I'm happy for him. Nathan worked hard to get where he is."

"Did he really?" she asks him, baiting him. "From what you've told me, Nathan has had it pretty easy. Full athletic scholarship to Duke, no genetic heart problems."

"He's had problems," he states flatly, feeling the need to defend his brother. "His teen years weren't a picnic, with Dan and Haley-" he stops at the mention of Haley's name.

She notices his hesitation, the way uttering Haley's name affects him. Pounces. "Haley. Your brother's ex-wife."

"And my best friend."

She looks up, takes interest in his use of the present tense. "I thought you didn't keep in touch with Haley."

He shifts in his chair uncomfortably, "We didn't. Not until a few weeks ago. She sent me a postcard one day, out of the blue. And we just, started talking again."

"You told me at your last session," she looks down at her notes again, "that you quote unquote hate her for what she did to me, what she did to everyone."

He rubs his forehead, "I was just hurt. We talked. Things are okay now."

He sees Dr. Fordham's eyes flicker with interest. "Have you told Nathan about this turn of events?"

He hates the stilted tone of her voice, the formal construction of her words. "No," he answers abruptly, in a chilly tone.

"Why not?" she asks, even though he's pretty sure she knows the answer.

"He'd see it as a betrayal."

"Because she broke his heart."

He looks down, "And that she left."

"She left Tree Hill because of him."

"I guess," he says, squinting a little.

"Is that why you started to talking to Haley again?"

"Excuse me?" His voice heavy with confusion, questions.

"Did you start talking to Haley again because she's the only thing that Nathan doesn't have? Are you talking to her because you having any kind of relationship with her would hurt him? Hurt him for living out your dream? Or maybe hurt him for driving her away?"

"No!" he exclaims. "God no. I love Nathan. Maybe sometimes I get jealous of what he has, how he just seems so happy, but I wouldn't do something this horrible to him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he says with conviction. "God."

"So you're willing to betray your brother for a girl?"

"Not just some girl," he says, trying to explain. "Haley."

"And you think it's worth it?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, looks at the carpeted floor, finally says, "Yeah."

"Why?" she asks him, leaning close, curiosity flickering over her face.

He doesn't know what to say for a moment, doesn't know how to articulate the emotions wound up tightly in his chest. Finally, says, "I used to be happy. Before. Even when I was Tree Hill's golden boy Dan Scott's mistake. Whenever she was with me, things would be okay. I would be…happy."

"And you think that you'd be happy with her around?"

Stumbles over his words, "At least, happier. Maybe."

"How about your life isn't happier with her in it? What happens then?"

A long pause. Then finally, "I don't know."


	4. let's get ready to crumble

**(let's get ready to crumble)**

She starts sending him more postcards.

From California. Providence. Winnipeg. Cleveland. Detroit. San Francisco. Vancouver. Halifax. London. Paris. Nice. Milan. Prague. Brisbane.

One, two, three a day. Every tour stop, every rest stop.

Glossy postcards illustrating the splendor of a landscape. Glorious buildings and vistas. Smiling nameless faces with cotton candy and yellow raincoats. Her flowing script etched on the back of each image:

Cut-outs from her agenda (_Call mom and dad. Make a reservation at hotel_.)

Fragments about her day (_Drank too much. Ate five chocolate bars. Mars. Didn't tell personal trainer_).

Lyrics ("_If I don't go crazy, I'll lose my mind/I saw a life before me but now I'm blind/I wanna go to heaven, never been there before_")

Signed, sealed, delivered,

He reads and rereads the text until his fingers are stained with the pencil or the ink, until he can recite the words by heart, until all he hears is the echo of her words in his head.

* * *

She doesn't call the first time she comes over to visit. 

It's raining outside, and he's in the kitchen, eating leftover pizza while typing up a short blurb on yet another steroid scandal on his laptop when she knocks. This is his life now, he thinks bitterly, a life reduced to writing blurbs about other peoples' successes while his own eluded him.

He doesn't show his surprise when he sees her face at his door, looking nothing like the flawless face on CD covers and _Instyle_ magazine. Her hair is dripping wet, streaks of mascara down her cheeks, a black duffle bag slung over her left shoulder.

"I was passing through Boston," she tells him as an explanation.

He knows this is a lie. He looked up her concert schedule on her website (haley james scott dot com – she didn't change her name, much too Nathan's dismay), knows that her previous concert was in Vancouver, her next one Seattle.

But he doesn't say anything. He just lets her in.

As she's slipping off her faded ballet flats, she comments, "Your place is freakishly clean."

He smiles at her blunt, classic-Haley comment. Shrugging, he responds, "Maria just finished cleaning the house this afternoon."

She raises an eyebrow in wonder, setting her ovation guitar on his carpeted floor. "Your girlfriend must be whipped to clean the house for you."

He shakes his head, smirks at image of dating the sweet, grandmotherly sixty-year-old. "Um, no. Actually, Maria's my cleaning lady."

She grins (wide, genuine) at this comment. He realizes that he hasn't seen her smile like that in years. "You have a cleaning lady?" She shakes her head, "I don't even have a cleaning lady. Too expensive."

He laughs, "Hey, if Jennifer wasn't taking care of the bill, I wouldn't have one either." As soon as he utters his sister-in-law's name, he regrets it.

"Jennifer?" she asks, idly walking into his living room.

He swallows before clarifying, "Nathan's wife."

Her face changes, eyes grow cold, dull. "Oh."

"Haley…" Words fail him, so he reaches out to touch her.

She moves away as his fingers touch the soft cashmere of her sweater, "Don't." Her voice hoarse.

He pulls away, taps his knuckles on the wall to calm his nerves. "Do you want a drink?"

She stays silent. He sighs, touches her shoulder, maneuvers her body so he can meet her eyes. "Hales," he says again. "You okay?"

She shrugs wordlessly, and smiles. A bitter, faint smile. "I'm just tired," she whispers, leaning over to press her forehead against his shoulder. "I'll be okay."

But the problem is, he realizes as he holds her, he's not sure if either of them will ever be.

* * *

She falls asleep twenty minutes after she arrives. He finds her curled up on his couch – the one he found at Salvation Army for twenty bucks – when he returns to her, carefully carrying a cup of coffee. Her head is on the armrest, her wet hair casting water stains on the worn forest green material. 

He sets the steaming cup of French Vanilla on the dining room table. Stretching his back, he winces when he hears his spine pop. He rubs his neck and watches her. Studies the delicate curve of her neck, the way her fingers are curled into fists, the paleness of her skin. And his stomach clenches – suddenly, tightly. And he doesn't know why.

The shuddering sound of thunder reminds him that she's soaking wet, and that she has a concert in Seattle in a few days. He's heard Haley sing with a cold and even his musically untrained ear remembers the notes that slid painfully out of tune.

Sighing, his eyes scan the room for the duffle bag. Finding it sitting haphazardly near the door, he picks the bag up and unzips it, searching for a pair of dry pants and a shirt. He pulls out pair of grey sweatpants and a hideous green shirt. His lips curve into a small smile. It comforts him that Haley's eclectic taste in clothing hasn't changed much.

He tucks the garments under his arm, sets the bag on the floor. He curses softly when it tips over and a few items spill onto the shiny floorboards. Bending down, he grabs the stick of deodorant, the _Massive Attack _CD, and the pack of cheap bics from the ground, his fingers brushing against the cold maple. He slips the things into her bag. He's about to slide the zipper closed when his eye catches a crinkled photograph, tucked haphazardly between a brightly striped scarf and a silk camisole. Curiosity overtakes him, and he finds himself reaching in and picking the photograph up.

A snapshot of the Scott brothers in victory:

He's smiling, laughing. Sweat pouring down his face, holding a basketball under his left arm. His right hand is curled into a fist, thrusting into the air in triumph and pride. Nathan's arm is slung around his shoulders, his head turned to one side, hollering with glee.

He remembers the moment. Vivid and bright. The picture was taken right after the Ravens won the basketball match against the Charleston Hornets. He had taken a shot from the foul line, right before the buzzer sounded, breaking the tie. He remembers the way Nathan leaped onto him, embracing him tightly and laughing.

He turns his head, let's his gaze falls on Haley's sleeping form. And when his eyes settle back to the still image of Nathan, a tableau of brotherly pride, his heart lurches painfully, heavy with guilt.

Heavy with betrayal.


	5. and he's never going to get over you

**(and I don't think he's ever going to get over you)**

The sun filters brightly through the windows, the glass distorting the angle of the beams. The cotton of his polo shirt sticks uncomfortably to his back as he swelters in the boiling heat of Nathan's attic.

He turns his head and huffs out, "And you chose the hottest day in the history of Boston to ask me to help you clean your attic why?"

Nathan laughs, "Hey, I have no control over the weather." He takes the moment to wipe his face with his shirt. "And you're the one who agreed to help," he adds.

"I didn't know I would suffer from a heatstroke when I agreed to help," he grumbles, grinning. He looks around at the attic, takes in the haphazardly piled boxes and the thin film of grime that covered each object. "It's a wonder that Jen allowed this mess in her home," he says in wonder, "It's a wreck, and we've been at this for the last hour."

Nathan bends down and lifts a box, supporting it on his knees. He sets it down a few feet away before answering, "She's been at me to clean the attic for the last year. I was just too busy to do it until now."

Lucas laughs, "You were too busy? Don't you mean you postponed doing it for as long as you could?"

Nathan sighs, "Or that." A small smile curves over his lips. "My wife's a tough bargainer."

"Oh yeah?" he asks absently, watching the dust particles dance in the sunlight. "What did she say to finally clean this place?"

Nathan hesitates before saying reluctantly, "She refused to have sex with me until I cleaned the attic."

He pauses, lets the words sink in before shaking his head and laughing, "You're kidding."

"No." Seeing his brother laughing, Nathan frowns good-naturedly. "It's not funny man."

He ducks his head and tries to hide his smile, "It is so."

Nathan lets out an exaggerated sigh, "I haven't gotten any for about a week now. I just about died, man."

"I guess it was like the old days then," he says, a twinkle in his eye. "You, your hand, and a towel huh?"

"You're enjoying this too much," Nathan states good-naturedly. He lifts a soapy sponge from a nearby bucket, and starts to wipe the dirtied walls clean.

Lucas laughs again, before getting back to work. Walking to the back of the attic, he leans over and grabs a box from a nearby pile. The cardboard feels flimsy in his hands, weakened from years of neglect and water damage. He sets it on the ground before the bottom breaks open. "Nate, do you have any extra boxes? This one is about to break."

Nathan nods distractedly, still scrubbing the grime off the walls, "There should be some near the window. Behind Jen's luggage."

He ambles towards the window, reaches behind the Vuitton suitcases and tugs a neatly folded box tied neatly with string. Not bothering to find scissors, he brings the string to his teeth, ripping the flimsy plastic with his incisors and quickly reassembles the carton.

Dragging the new box to the back of the attic, he reaches over and rips the packing tape off the aged cardboard. He finds a cream-coloured dress on top, and is about to transfer it to the new box when he realizes it's Haley's wedding dress. He swallows hard, slowly drops the dress, and pushes it aside, digging deeper. Sees broken pieces of plaster and wood, emblazoned with smiling pictures of Haley, of Nathan (the wedding wall, he realizes). A cheap and colourful plastic bracelet.

The remnants of Nathan and Haley's marriage.

At that moment, he feels Nathan's hand roughly grabbing his shoulder, pushing him down. "What the fuck are you doing?" Nathan asks loudly. His voice trembling with fury, his eyes burning like fire. "Looking through my stuff?"

Looks down, tries to explain, "I-I was just trying to move your stuff from that old box to a new one."

Nathan glares at him, "Just stay the fuck out of my stuff, Lucas!"

He backs away, his palms up in protest, "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to-"

"Just go," Nathan hisses, refusing to meet his eyes. He starts shoving the things back into the box angrily. "Just go."

Lucas swallows, looking at the tense curve of his brother's back. He presses his thumb to his eyelid, feels the weight of guilt settling into his stomach as he remembers Haley's smile.

And as he turns to leave, he notices Nathan shoving the battered box into a corner, placing it amongst the pieces of his current life.

Refusing to let go.


	6. i don't need you but i do

**note:** This update has been ridiculously tardy and for that I apologize. But school is done for the summer and I'm starting to write once more. I hope I'll be able to update in a more timely manner.

**(i don't need you but i do)**

The day after his fight with Nathan, Lucas decides to purge his life from Haley. He won't read the multitude of postcards that flutter into his mailbox, will hide them in an old, rusted tool box he can't bear to get rid of. He will delete the messages she leaves him on his voice mail before he hears them. He deletes her songs from his iPod and donates her cds to his next door neighbor.

Eradicating his life from Haley, it eases his guilt. He tells himself he's not betraying his brother if he stops talking to Haley, listening to Haley, thinking about Haley. Nathan means so much to him. God, he's his brother. Nathan is his baby brother, and Lucas loves him so much. He can't live without him, they're family.

And he tries to convince himself that he can live without Haley, without seeing her and talking to her and laughing with her. After all, last February, he hadn't seen her for years. He'd forgotten about her (sort of, kind of, no, I couldn't never forget her, never). But Nathan, Nathan has been there for him since college, since the day he found out about HCM, since the day Keith died. "I can live without Haley," he whispers into the night, "I can live without Haley."

But the thing is he's starting to think he can't.

Because but the more he tries to stop thinking, talking and listening to her, the more he thinks about her, wants to call her, wants to listen to fragments of her voice singing about angels and love and darkness.

Because before Nathan, there was Haley, the girl who befriended him on the first day of kindergarten by lending him her yellow shovel.

Because at seven, he had promised her that they'd be friends forever and ever. A promise sealed with blood spilled from a pocket knife she'd swiped from her father's jacket.

Because in his heart and his head, he knows that in these past few weeks, he had been happy. Guilty, but happy. Happier. And he knows it's because of her, because of Haley.

Because she hasn't stopped calling and sending postcards and her voice is starting to sound hurt and resigned, her writing starting to look crooked and slanted and sad. And it takes him all his willpower to not call her, talk to her, write her.

And therein lies his problem.


End file.
